


On Earth, as It Isn't Heaven (or The Inexplicable Sound of Heartbreak on Vinyl)

by homesickblues



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Band, Drug Use, Folk Rock, Guitar, M/M, Music, Piano, Rockstar AU, band au, lots and lots of good fucking music, mental breakdowns, musician au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5477087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homesickblues/pseuds/homesickblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames’s first love was classical. His second love was rock ‘n’ roll. </p><p>His third was Arthur. </p><p> <i>OR</i></p><p>The 1960's/70's Folk Rock AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Earth, as It Isn't Heaven (or The Inexplicable Sound of Heartbreak on Vinyl)

**Author's Note:**

> This story will be split into two parts with the possibility of an epilogue. 
> 
> Credit for the first part of the title goes to the Martin Scorsese film _The Last Waltz_ , aka the greatest rock film of all time (I will fight you on this) which features a _band_ which heavily influenced this story. 
> 
> All music mentioned will be linked in the text. I also made a spotify [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1210091790/playlist/0pHviO2YMAbeb9zO1N160N) for this fic featuring a lot of songs which inspired me and feature the style of music that I imagine them playing. 
> 
> Many _MANY_ thanks to [StellarRequiem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StellarRequiem/pseuds/StellarRequiem) for reading/betaing, and freaking out with me.

Montreal, 1969

The hotel room is dark but Eames can tell that it’s been utterly ravaged. Moonlight slips through the billowing curtains like an icy spotlight, highlighting the strewn chairs and smashed decorative vases, leaving jagged pieces of glass and clay scattered across the carpet. Arthur stands on the other side of the room with his back to him. He’s shaking violently, like he’s been out in the cold for a while, but he _hasn’t_ , and that makes something deep inside of Eames ache miserably.  

“Arthur –“ The words get stuck in his throat. There are old lines of cocaine on the table which is still somehow upright, smudged from the fuss made of destroying the room, next to a nearly empty bottle of whiskey and a few relabeled prescription bottles full of pills. 

 _Arthur_ , he wants to say, _what has become of you? Of us?_

“Leave,” Is Arthur’s clipped response. His voice is different. Its usual timbre is gone, replaced with something dark and dangerous and wild. The word slices into him like a bullet, ripping through his ribcage and lodging itself into his core.

Eames, always foolishly obstinate and _selfish,_ takes one step forward towards him, which compels Arthur to snatch up a lamp from the nearest surface and launch it at him with full-force. He’s barely able to dodge, but the bottom of the lamp catches his hairline ever so slightly, knocking him off balance. His ears start to ring and he puts a hand up in defense.

“Let’s be reasonable about this. Please. Let’s talk this through like adults.” It’s a simple enough request, he thinks. But he knows that drugs can make even the most reasonable solutions seem like the end of the bloody world. Arthur flinches but doesn’t move again. His shaking intensifies. He’s facing him now, and the look on his face is comparable to shattered ice.

“I said _leave_. Get out. It’s over. It’s all _over_. Don’t you _fucking_ get it? The music… _our_ music… it’s dead. You killed it. You fucking _murdered_ it. Get _out_.” His tone is eerily calm and monotone but he draws raged breaths between them which sound like scraping metal.

What Eames _should_ say is this: _It’s all a sham. I’m a coward. If they knew the truth about us we’d be sacked. Arrested. Disowned. I don’t want to marry her but my parents made the arrangements when they found out about us in an attempt to try and save my reputation. And yours. And I kept it from you because I was scared you’d react this way. You don’t grasp the full gravity of our situation. How delicate everything is. We can make this work. It’s just an obstacle. We can make it through this. We can do_ anything _._

What Eames _wants_ to say is this: _But I love you._

What Eames _does_ say is this:

Nothing. He leaves. He turns and walks right out of Arthur’s life just as simply as Arthur walked right into his. When the door closes behind him he hears a shuffle and then the sounds of an acoustic guitar being smashed violently against a wall, the strings snapping, the wood pulverized to pieces. It’s followed by an _agonizing_ scream and more crashing. The scream rips through him like jagged glass and it feels like the world really _is_ ending.

He hurries down the stairwell and into the lobby where the police are waiting. They give him an expectant look and he just shakes his head.

They look wary and exasperated as they head up the stairs. Eames writes out a blank check and leaves it with the receptionist. Their manager is nowhere to be found. Typical. He then hurries out into the fog of the city and disappears into a taxi, unaware and uncaring of where he’s going. His parents and his “fiancée” are waiting for him back in London, but he can worry about that later. Funny, he thinks, how one of the world’s most famous rock artists fell into ruin because of a scandal no one will ever hear about. Funnier still for anyone to think that being caught in bed with the love of one’s life is a “scandal”. As if they didn’t already make love on stage every night, an audience screaming and crying at song after song of pure unadulterated, untamed, passionate _love_. Making love is all they’ve ever done.

There’ll be an official announcement in the Sunday news of his marriage, he’ll slowly dissolve into oblivion, and in a few months he’ll embark in a life of a loveless marriage and his life will effectively be over. All the good parts of it, anyway. The parts that really mattered. The Arthur parts.

Arthur’s right, he thinks. The music’s dead. And he’s dead to Arthur.

And then there’s nothing but static and silence.

 

**

A Time Past

 

The first great love of Eames’s life was classical music.

Some of his first memories involve sitting on his mother’s lap and watching her fingers with intense rapture as they flitted across black and white keys, never fudging a single note. Her fingers were delicate but calloused and strong, able to produce the tiniest flutter of sound to the most thunderous chords. Sometimes he would put his tiny hands on top of hers and pretend it was he who was making such incredible sounds.

When he was four, he knew how to play “Hot Cross Buns” and “Chopsticks”, but his mother decided it was time for him to broaden his repertoire. By the time he was nine, he was a virtuoso. At sixteen, he was performing for royalty. At eighteen, after several lengthy audition tapes shot on a Super 8 camera were shipped first class to America, he was accepted to Juilliard. His father, a rather well-off Baron, had fought back against his decision to accept the invitation, wanting his heir to stay within close reach so he could prep and preen him for his later-life duties, but even he couldn’t deny his son of his talent. So, he packed his life into two suitcases and boarded a boat across the Atlantic.

There, he met a wide range of people, all with different talents, most very different from his own. Everyone there was _possessed_ with whatever creative passion had taken over their life, and for the first time in his life he was introduced to other cultures, other music that he never really paid any mind to before. 

One day in 1958 during his second year, a small girl in his world music class with large brown eyes and tight boyish trousers named Ariadne sat him down and put on a record of some guy named Elvis.

“ _This_ ,” she’d said with the wide-eyes and grin of some sort of wondrous mystic about to reveal the secrets of the universe, “is the music of the _Gods_.”

And in that very instant, his life was changed forever.

His first love was classical music. His second love was rock ‘n’ roll.

It bashed into his life like a battering ram, unforgiving and blinding and _loud_. There was never any going back. He still went to class and made his professors swoon over how _emotive_ his Beethoven, Chopin and Dvorak were. He’d still stay in the practice room into the late hours of the night practicing and _practicing_ and dreaming so adamantly about sitting before a grand Steinway with an adoring audience at the edges of their velvet-lined seats. But when he was alone in his room at night, he’d put on records which he imagined the likes of both Beethoven and his father scoffing at: Bill Haley  & His Comets, Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, The Everly Brothers, Sam Cooke, Cliff Richard, Roy Orbison… Every Sunday he’d make a point of walking down to the little record shop on the corner of 61st and West End Avenue and pick up something new with the few bucks he made a week from doing some page-turning for his professor who performed with the New York Philharmonic.

Until 1959 rock seemed like something otherworldly to him; something so beautiful it couldn’t be contained or touched, but rather existed out in space like something holy and cosmic. Classical music was tangible to him because he could _touch_ it. Rock, he couldn’t. This whole illusion ended when his cellist friend Yusuf dragged him to some cellar café with black brick walls, leather sofas and a small dance floor in the middle. He felt instantly out of place in his khakis with a button-up blue shirt and cardigan. He felt like the oldest person in the room, though that wasn’t the case by far.

Everyone else was dressed like sin and either lounging around or dancing like they were the paintings on Grecian urns come to life. There were men wearing pants so tight that about as much was left to the imagination as a statue of Apollo with leather jackets and hair greased into ducktails atop their heads. Girls donned short leather skirts and large hair with thick bands of eyeliner below their false lashes.

The dance floor was about the side of a spacey broom closet and yet it was packed with writhing bodies and exploratory hands. There were a few boys on the stage dressed in the same tight pants with ducktails but with matching black ties and sunglasses playing covers and bending their knees in equal timing to the music. They were okay, but nothing like his records, so he ordered a coke and sat back on a couch with Yusuf.

“This is where the _real_ artists in the city go,” Yusuf grinned merrily into his soda and lime, “I know we go to a school of people who are book geniuses when it comes to music, but I guarantee you’ll find just as much talent here…”

“So far I’m not exactly seeing your point,” Eames admitted, unimpressed with the tinny guitar solo the tallest man with the ducktail busted out, bouncing up on his toes like that was supposed to make it sound better or something.

“Just wait. They change acts every twenty minutes. If there’s a good one, they keep them on for an extra ten. These cats are almost done.”

Eames sighed and rested his chin on his palm, feeling uncomfortable and out of place like a goldfish in a tropical pond. A group of girls near him kept turning to stare every time he said something, winking and giggling. He scowled.

Finally the group, who identified themselves as the “Fizz-Bangs”, exited the stage. There was a moment of awkward silence which the crowd filled with buzzing conversation and laughter. Eames shuffled, trying to see who was up next.

Finally, a boy climbed onto the stage. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old, and wasn’t dressed like the act previous. He had long slender limbs and shaggy waves of dark brown hair which fell to the top of his ears. He was wearing a brown leather jacket, accompanied with a nice pair of black slacks and polished shoes and a white pinstriped button-up shirt. He had nothing but an acoustic guitar strapped around his neck and a pick between his thumb and pointer finger.

“Hi folks, how’re we feeling tonight?” he said into the microphone, his voice deep and smooth with a hint of a New York accent. He ran his fingers through his waves, pushing them back and away from his deep brown eyes, “I’m Arthur, and I have a couple songs for you today that I wrote.”

A corner of his lips pulled up, causing the most gorgeous, deep dimple to appear. Then, with a quick “Let me know what you think,” and a few testing strums to make sure everything was in tune, he was off. Arthur played with the precision of a Trojan soldier smuggling himself into battle, but the passion of the lovers who began the war. Eames watched him like he was witnessing a vision of Apollo himself.  His eyes were closed causing his long eyelashes to brush against the top of his pronounced cheekbones, and his lips twitched with reverence every time he played a particularly strained note. His fingers danced effortlessly along the frets, looking as if they were barely even touching them but merely ghosting above them.

It all happened like some two bob movie he used to see with his friends on Fridays. Eames stood without words, without even _hearing_ Yusuf asking him what the hell he was up to. He moved like he was floating through the café and onto the dance floor, through the crowd and didn’t feel a single person touching him. He moved straight to the bottom of the stage. Arthur was mid-strum when he spotted him. He opened his mouth and closed it again, continuing to strum a kind of improvised interlude, because once they locked eyes there was never any going back. The same cosmic pull that led Eames to the front of the stage had taken ahold of Arthur as well, and there was _never any going back_.

Eames’s first love was classical. His second love was rock ‘n’ roll.

His third was Arthur.

Arthur finished to a roar of applause and girls going mad. He gave them all a coy salute before he was herded off the stage by some techie, vanishing. Eames tried to find him, but it was like he simply disappeared into thin air, as if he never existed in the first place. Without knowing what to do, desperate, he had stumbled outside only to find Arthur lighting up a cigarette and looking quite shaken and confused but also _awed_. When he spotted Eames he pounced like an agile cat, cornering him against the wall at the mouth of the next door alleyway.  

“What’s your name?” he demanded around the cigarette hanging precariously between his lips, eyes wide as saucers. It dawned on Eames then that he wasn’t alone in the bizarre earth-shifting feelings from before.

“Eames. Cedric Eames, but most people just call me…”

“Eames.” Arthur smiled like he was drunk. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and blew the smoke into Eames’s face, “It’s a cool name. I’m Arthur Cohen.”

“I know,” Eames said too quickly and panicked, “I mean, you said…”

“Yes.” Arthur blinked, eyelashes dusting against cheekbones once more as he did so. The dimple appeared again. They stood in stunned silence for a while before Eames cleared his throat.

“Your music… it’s incredible.” Eames gushed without meaning to, “Absolutely brilliant. Better than anything I hear at Juilliard, and it’s _Juilliard_ , you know, so what I mean is you’re really bloody good...”

Arthur perked a brow, “You go to Juilliard? What do you do?”

“Piano.”

“Do you write music?”

“Yes. Classical bits. I’m in a composition class. We have arrangements due every Friday afternoon but…”

“Do you like kosher?” Arthur interrupted, letting smoke billow out of his nose. Eames snapped his mouth shut and stared at him like he’d just spoken a different language.

“Pardon?”

“You know… kosher. Jewish food.” Arthur waved his hand with the cigarette around in a vague motion as if that was supposed to help him understand. Eames blinked and shrugged.

“Not the slightest. Never had it.”

“Wanna grab some and talk? There’s a joint about two blocks from here that’s pretty good.”

Eames took a moment to look him over. He was about two inches shorter than him, including the messy waves atop his head. His guitar had been slung over his back and his hands were shoved into his pockets to protect them from the cold. His skin was pale, causing a pink flush to appear across his nose and cheeks. Eames smiled.

“I’d love to. My treat. Lead the way.”

Arthur gave him a sly smile and tossed his cigarette onto the ground, stepping on it, before walking off with him. The next four hours were filled with challah and matzoh ball soup and pastrami and Arthur and Arthur and _Arthur_. Eames didn’t remember that he’d left Yusuf alone in the club until the next time he saw him in composition class the next Monday, but by that time it didn’t even matter.  His world had a new tempo, a new meter, a new _key_.  

 

**

 

From their first meeting onward, Eames circled Arthur like a vulture, and vice-versa. They would spend nearly every weekend together, listening to music and talking about the deeper parts of life. Arthur would steal wine and whiskey from his uncle’s liquor store and they would lie on the floor in Eames’s room and get drunk, or wander down to a practice room and teach each other Chuck Berry songs. Arthur was all at once kind and patient and open as well as sharp and tactile and clever. He’d let Eames express himself however he saw fit, but he’d never let him get away with any sort of insecurity or unsureness. Music was Arthur’s religion just as it was Eames’s, and it was a language they both spoke.

He’d still find time to hang out with his other friends, but they all respected what they secretly called Eames’s “special Arthur time”, and let them be. Ariadne and Arthur even hit it off pretty well. He liked her style, passionate feminism and affinity for calling him out whenever he’d play a note slightly out of tune. She liked his hair. Sometimes she’d join them on Sundays when they’d go get bagels and lox for brunch and sit on benches near Central Park and people-watch.

It was only natural when, in Eames’s last year at Juilliard in 1961, they started writing music together. Arthur never went to University, but rather worked weekdays at a music shop, repairing guitars and giving lessons. Most nights he had some gig lined up somewhere in town that paid decently well.  Eames would always work extra hard during the day to get his compositions and translations finished early so he could take his motorbike to whatever hole-in-the-wall venue Arthur was performing at to be a fly-on-the-wall. Sometimes Ariadne would ride double with him, but always with the understanding that she’d most likely have to take a cab back because no matter how much they’d deny it, the spot behind him was always reserved for Arthur. Eames never spoke about how much more he enjoyed feeling Arthur’s arms around his waist, the warmth of him pressed up against his back, than Ariadne’s.

One night in the early springtime as Eames prepared for graduation, he’d found himself back at the same crammed underground café he first met Arthur at. It’d gone through some minor renovations, including a larger dancefloor, but it still felt oddly special. It felt like _their_ club, as silly as that thought seemed. When Arthur took the stage the crowd buzzed excitedly. He’d garnered a small cult following who were always excited at his appearance onstage. Even from afar, Eames could see the dimple appear at the reception ( _or could he simply sense its presence?)._ Arthur situated himself on a stool, his acoustic in his lap.

“Thanks for coming out tonight,” he winked at a few girls in the front of the audience who squealed and giggled. He started to play, but stopped immediately, covering the strings with his fingers to cut off the reverberations entirely. Eames watched closely with a concerned, furrowed brow as Arthur rapped gently at the wood of his guitar with his knuckles and worried at his lip with his teeth. Finally, he sighed exasperatedly and looked back up.

“Sorry about that, but I just realized that something’s missing up on stage with me. I’d like to invite someone very special to join me up here and make some music with me. He’s here tonight… I was worried he wouldn’t be, but I can see him there in the back. Eames, get over here. I need you.”

The entire room fell silent as every eye turned to find the person Arthur was calling out. Eames froze, feeling like every muscle in his body was clenching to the point of collapse, and yet, he found himself standing and moving. He didn’t take his eyes off of Arthur.

The words “ _I need you_ ” rattled around his mind and made him dizzy.

Arthur watched him with rapt gratification, his eyes stunningly soft. Eames climbed onto the stage and gave the audience a curt nod and a one-sided smile before leaning down to whisper in Arthur’s ear.

“And what is it exactly you expect me to do, pet? Interpretive dance?” he wore a smile but his voice trembled slightly. Everyone stared.

Arthur matched his gaze and gave him an adoring yet wicked grin and motioned for a bored-looking techie to push a baby Grand out from behind the curtain, which he did in the most put-upon manner. Eames shook his head, wondering if Arthur’d planned this all along, and slid down onto the bench.

“My friend here’s graduating from Juilliard in a few weeks. Top of his class. He’ll probably go onto become the next Mozart or something, but for now, I’m going to exploit his talents for all of you here tonight just because I _can_.”

Eames laughed and shook his head, feeling a fondness rise up inside of him like hot air. He ran his fingers over the keys and felt alive.

“We’ll be playing something a bit different than normal. Something you’ll all be familiar with from your mother’s record collection, no doubt, but we’ve spiffed it up a bit.” With that, Arthur launched into the first few tabs of the acoustic, slightly more rock version of Sinatra’s “[Under My Skin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_XCVnV5CGh0)” that they’d jokingly come up with together late one night after Eames complained that Sinatra, or Cole Porter for that matter, was becoming irrelevant and that _depressed_ him. Without even having to think, Eames began effortlessly tapping out the accompanying piano chords.

Arthur sang in his most crooning tone, his voice like the silkiest caress of velvet that had everyone practically on their knees praying.

“ _I’ve got you under my skin._

_I’ve got you deep in the heart of me._

_So deep in my heart_

_That you’re really a part of me_

_I’ve got you under my skin”_

Eames looked back at him and found Arthur watching him with close eyes, and Eames felt like all the oxygen was suddenly sucked out of the room in a vacuum. For a moment, no one moved or dared _breathe_ , but after a while a few brave souls took to the dance floor and slow-danced, bodies pressed close. Some couples even kissed.

Eames cleared his throat and sang along in quiet harmony, his voice timid but growing louder with confidence with each passing note. He’d never really sang anything before Arthur practically pried it out of him, but upon finding he had perfect pitch and quite a good tone, he’d been singing ever since.

“ _I’ve tried so not to give in_

_I said to myself this affair never will go so well_

_But why should I try to resist when baby,_

_I know so well,_

_I’ve got you under my skin”_

Eames glanced behind him once more and saw something in Arthur’s eyes he’d seen a million times before, but never quite so acutely intense. They were darker than normal and there was a flicker of something emotional behind them that he couldn’t quite place at first but then realized he was feeling the exact same thing.

This was exactly where he was meant to be. It was where he was _always_ meant to be. Where they were both meant to be. On the stage, performing, together. The universe had pushed them together for this exact moment, and everything was exactly as it was supposed to be. The feeling of it was tangible in the room, and everyone knew. Everyone had some sort of sense that what they were witnessing was fate. Eames was sure of it.

The rest of the show flew by in a mist of something completely magical. When Arthur’s set was over, he stood and gave a curt nod at the audience in lieu of a bow and then motioned at Eames. The audience grew louder, and Arthur’s dimples grew deeper, and Eames felt completely and utterly _effervescent_. He bowed a bit exaggeratedly, accompanied by a joking grin, and left the stage with Arthur. The moment he stepped down, he felt Arthur’s slender fingers, calloused and strong, grip his own and pull him through the crowd and out through a back door near the restrooms.

Eames blinked, but held onto Arthur for dear life. The air outside was cool and crisp and slightly _sweet_ , like New York in the spring would always get. It was drizzling slightly, just enough to dampen their jackets and hair. Arthur cornered him against the brick wall, eyes locking immediately. Eames watched closely as Arthur’s eyes flickered from his own to his lips.

And then Arthur’s lips were on his and there was nothing but their clashing breath and his heart pounding in his ears and the rain above and Arthur and Arthur and _Arthur_ …

After that night came the music. _Their_ music. It started out slow, just verses scribbled down on the backs of notecards or napkins or even each other’s skin during lazy mornings in a tangle of sheets, but soon there would be nothing else. Eames graduated top of his class, just as Arthur had predicted, and afterward immediately packed up his belongings and moved into Arthur’s tiny studio apartment where they would, together, create their earliest masterpieces. It was the tiny apartment where they’d carefully construct with bare hands and bare hearts a love for one another that would always be immortalized cryptically in their music; a secret behind every note, every word.

There was never any going back.

 

**

 

New York City, 1964

 

“What do you mean you don’t have a _name_?”

Dom Cobb wasn’t very tall but he still had a tendency to tower over everyone until they felt much smaller than they really were. He had a round face and dirty blonde hair which he kept cut short and tidy; business-like. He was perfect levels of intimidating and persuasive, which is exactly why Arthur had accepted his offer to meet.

“We’ve never had a need for one,” Arthur answered coolly, impassive as he looked out the window of Cobb’s 78th floor office down to the street distantly below. Eames fidgeted nervously with his tie.

“Well what do people call you, then? What do they put on the marquis?”

“Arthur and Eames.”

Cobb sighed dramatically and leaned back in his fancy leather chair, running a hand through his hair.

“I guess that could do. People might think you’re copying those new guys… Simon and Garfunkel, or whatever… in fact they’ll definitely think you’re copying them, but we can still run with it. You just might get some flame in the press…”

“We don’t really care about that. We just want our music out there,” Eames interjected, scooting forward in his chair, “And we don’t want it to be under some ridiculous name like the _Beatles_ or something…”

“Hey,” Cobb warned, “Those guys are like _kings_ right now. Have you so much as _glanced_ at a newspaper recently? There are headlines about what those guys eat for fucking dinner. _Obviously_ something’s working.”

“Sell-outs,” Arthur sighed and waved his hand indifferently, rolling his eyes, “And besides, can’t we ride off of their British Invasion train or something? Play up Eames’s accent?” His tone was joking, but only Eames would know that. A hint of a dimple appeared, Eames’s tell-tale sign of Arthur’s latent but very profound cheekiness, but Cobb took this very seriously, his brow furrowing and his eyes bulging.

“That’s very true… _very_ true… we could emphasize that… the girls are all going crazy over accents nowadays.”

Eames pinched the bridge of his nose and could see Arthur’s smug smirk out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s true, you know,” Mal Cobb, Dom’s offensively gorgeous and brilliantly witty wife and, for all intents and purposes, business partner sang as she walked in the door with a pile of freshly copied papers. Her own accent was sharp and very, _very_ French, “everyone will go _trés fou_ for an accent. Why do you think my husband even batted an eyelash in my direction?” She shot him a wicked smile and pecked his temple, handing him the stack of paper. Her heels clicked on the way out. Cobb looked abashed and dazed. Arthur’s smirk broadened. Eames suddenly realized how similar she and Arthur truly were, and how defenseless he and Cobb were against their significant others’ hurricane-like forces. Cobb settled, his brow unfurrowing slightly, and seemed suddenly perfectly willing, like Eames, to whether the storm.

“Right,” Eames leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, annoyed, “Are we signing the bloody contract or not?”

 

**

 

London, 1965

 

“Eames, where the _fuck_ is my _fucking_ strap?”

Tour life was difficult. Harder than Eames’d ever imagined, but plus a few unexpected shitty twists and turns. The days and nights blurred together in a whirlwind haze of caffeine, adrenaline, nicotine and the occasional hit of grass. Sometimes it felt like neither of them had slept in a week. Sometimes, on days off, they’d sleep for 32 hours and screw up their internal clocks so badly that they had no sense of up from down.

He just wanted them to be _big_ already, as awful as that sounded. As if there was some sort of guarantee that they wouldn’t just fall into oblivion after all was said and done, but there was so much more bloody pressure on the opening act to actually impress.

The headliner simply got to prance on stage and _be_. People paid money just to see them. The live music was an added bonus. It made touring with Bob Dylan almost impossible, because he was a legend already. People would line up around the block just to try and get a ticket. And then his shows would be sold out, and who would be left to try and entertain this already bought-and-sold crowd?

He resented himself for complaining, even internally. They’d be nowhere if Dylan hadn’t of swooped them up after dropping in on one of their gigs in San Francisco.

“I don’t know, pet, where did you last see it?” Eames checked under his luggage and couldn’t find it. It had to be _somewhere,_ he reckoned, as it was a bright emerald green piece of material. Arthur was already strung so tight he was almost ready to snap and Eames could sense it. Sometimes his shoulders would be almost up to his ears.

“I don’t _fucking_ know… last night I think…” The words came from behind clenched teeth.

Eames sighed and quickly assumed his position behind Arthur, squeezing at his shoulders and massaging his thumbs into the taut muscles and knots. Arthur resisted at first, as he always did – a reaction no doubt formed from years of being considered too small to not have to be protected – before melting back against him and letting his head lull back onto his shoulder. Eames pressed a feathery string of kisses up the artery in his neck and paused by his ear.

“If we can’t find your strap we’ll borrow one or get you a new one. The gig’s not for a couple hours yet. We have time. Breathe.”

“Sometimes I forget,” Arthur answered automatically, his voice breathier than usual. Eames smiled, adoring the way he made Arthur come apart at the seams. Adoring _Arthur_ , in general.

“I know, silly man. I know.”

Arthur turned in his grasp, causing his hands to slide down to his hips. He tugged absently at Eames’s collar and pursed his lips in the way he did whenever something was ebbing at his brilliant mind.

“We’re in your home city,” he said finally after quite a long pause of fidgeting, “And you’ve barely said a word about it. Don’t think I haven’t noticed, because you rarely shut up about anything.” His tone was teasing but his eyes were concerned. Eames chuckled.

“Well why would I? My father thinks I’m a nutter and I haven’t heard from my mum in almost a year. They think I’ve thrown away everything they built for me or something ridiculous like that. So it’s not like there’s some big, warm welcome I’m missing. Their prodigal son hasn’t exactly returned in the manner which would please them…”

“Ah yes, your future title as a Duke or whatever…”

“Baron. Little bit more wiggle room. If my father was a Duke I’d be at Oxford or Cambridge right now trying as hard as I possibly could to brownnose the Queen.”

Arthur chuckled softly and buried his face into Eames’s neck and Eames could feel him taking deep breaths, gulping him in.

“Well you’re not. You’re here, destroying your father’s title with your music and those gorgeous lips of yours.” he winked, a rarity, and Eames tossed his head back and laughed happily.

It was these little moments, these small moments of aloneness on the tour that made it all worth it. They would always be booked into two separate hotel rooms, but no one ever checked on them except for Cobb, and he was _privy_ to their little secret, so he never told a soul when every night he’d find one room empty and the other occupied by both. He’d found out one afternoon after sitting them both down and exclaiming, “Listen, if there’s anything you need to tell me that could cause bad press, tell me now so I know better how to cover it up,”

Mal knew too. She’d found them later and kissed both of their cheeks, telling them she thought it was beautiful.

It felt strangely empowering having someone know. A small victory in the legitimacy of their feelings. Cobb wasn’t judgmental. He was a businessman. As long as the music they made was ace as a result, he couldn’t care less about what happened behind closed doors. And Mal was… Mal.

Eames found himself completely, absent-mindedly lost in Arthur’s eyes when Arthur stepped back suddenly with his arms still locked around Eames’s neck and sent them both tumbling onto the bed, Eames landing on top of him. He smirked wickedly and pulled him down by his collar, ruffling it with his fingers, and kissed him hard, missing strap entirely forgotten.

Eames didn't want to play that night. Most nights he wanted to go out on stage and perform and feel the music coursing through him like lightning, but that night was different. Eames wanted to lock the door to their hotel room, close the blinds and map Arthur's body with his tongue. He wanted to carve out the foothills of his veins and valleys of his joints and learn him all over again, memorize every inch of him like he was memorizing sacred Holy Scriptures to plead himself into heaven. Arthur felt warm beneath him; whole and real and _warm_. A living breathing mythical creature who he could have never imagined to actually exist in his life. _What good deed did I ever do to deserve him?_

Eames didn't know he could be in love with a man before Arthur. Or anyone for that matter. He'd just never been interested in anyone - man nor woman. His future always seemed lonely: he knew one day his parents would make some smart match with a well-bred rich girl and they'd have babies until his wife plopped out a son, an heir, and then he'd live the rest of his life miserable and lonely and bitter. Music was his way out, his release that he wanted to be his lover in later life when he ended up inheriting his father's title.

Arthur was different. Arthur was _monumental._ Eames fell in love with his soul first, then his body; his whole person. Arthur was the most beautiful piece of music he'd ever heard; he was Beethoven's fevered, exquisite [nightmare](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Tr0otuiQuU) and Mozart’s awed [vision](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1-TrAvp_xs) of heaven and hell alike. He was the second movement of Dvorak’s New World Symphony sending him soaring through the very [cosmos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hOX15agZ3-0) to the beginning of existence. _Their_ music, the music they made together, became the stitches that tied it all together, their love. There was never any _possibility_ of anyone other than Arthur.

Every breath Arthur took was a sonata, every word a concerto, every song a movement. At night, Eames would make Arthur moan and cry symphonies. With Arthur beneath him like he was, he wanted to tune him and play the opening chords of that symphony _now_ , he wanted to _devour him_ , he wanted to –

Arthur let out a soft sigh from the attention of Eames's lips near his clavicle and brushed his fingers through his hair which was shaggier than it normally was. Arthur’s hair, contrarily, was cropped short, his waves gone. It was mostly done in a messy style and not a ducktail, but he was sick of getting called a Beatle or a Rolling Stone or a _mop_ , of all things. The shorter hair made him look less boyish, more grown up, but Eames liked how he had no way to hide himself then.

"We need to get ready. I need to find my strap." he mumbled against Eames's hair and Eames could feel his smile, “Or get a new one, I suppose.”

Eames sighed dramatically, looking up at him.

"Couldn't we just both feign the flu?" he teased. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"This isn’t a school performance, Eames."

Eames pouted and Arthur chuckled fondly, fixing Eames's collar (which he’d ruffled in the first place) and flattening out the front of his shirt. He wanted so badly to argue. Arthur’s lips were damp and slightly swollen already and Eames just wanted to nip at them and get him to make those little airy moans he’d sometimes make. _Mezzo-piano overture to the second movement, adagio tempo…_

Arthur put that thought to an end by gently shoving him off and sitting up.

"C'mon. Adoring fans await."

"Yeah... For the main act. For Dylan." Eames tried to stop his disappointment from leaking out through his teeth, but it failed.

"They'll see you and forget all about him." Arthur said it with a wink, but the implication made Eames feel weightless. The sheer knowledge that Arthur considered him beautiful was worth more than any cheering audience, any sold-out amphitheater, any world tour.

Arthur found his strap under the bed.

Their set went by in a whirlwind of harmony and secret smiles. After, they leaned up against a wall backstage and listen to Dylan’s set. The audience went wild. No one was watching them. Eames tangled their fingers and pressed his lips against Arthur’s ear. Arthur closed his eyes.

Eames [sang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JqY9cq5lW0U) in time with Dylan in his ear.

“ _But I wish there was somethin' you would do or say_

_To try and make me change my mind and stay_

_But we never did too much talking anyway_

_But don't think twice, it's all right_.”

Arthur opened his eyes and turned to look at him, boring holes into his soul with a small quirk of his lip that said: _Never. You will never leave me. Never._

Eames beamed as bright as the sun and gently ran his thumb over Arthur’s bottom lip and up over his indented dimple. He kissed him with the soft reverence of worshiping a sacred artifact. _Never_ , he repeated in his mind. _Never, never, never…_

And so, in that moment, Eames planted seeds. He’d gently pushed away the soft earth and planted what the promises of the life he wanted, of the life he wanted to give Arthur.

Arthur and Arthur and _Arthur…_

The earth those seeds were planted in wasn’t poisoned yet.


End file.
